Entering a parallel universe.
Stream
Darrell Jackson and Sarah Barnes
Sun 11 May 2014 18:50
The sail from Rodney Bay to St Vincent was all that we felt a Caribbean sail should be. A beam reach with a mainly steady Force 4. One reef in the main to help with the occasional gusts and only a short period of motor sailing when the winds did their usual trick of becoming very flukey around the southern end of St Lucia. We were even gifted some dolphins, who spent a good quarter of an hour riding our bow wave as we neared St Vincent, much to Sarah's delight. St Vincent was visible from the time we weighed anchor and the Pitons clearly still visible when we dropped anchor some 8 hours after leaving on our 50 nm passage.
Approaching St Vincent from the north gives you a magnificent view of the island's volcano, strangely named Soufriere, like many of the other islands' volcanoes in this neck of the woods. This 3000ft volcano dominates the north end of the island. It's activity over the centuries creating the rugged landscape. You can clearly see some rivers of dark volcanic larva that flowed down from the summit. It erupted in 1902,( a busy time for volcanic activity in this part of the Caribbean), 1973 and 1979. St Vincent is an island of towering mountains, craggy peaks and dramatic precipices covered in dense green forest. As we sailed south down the coast we could clearly see many forest covered ridges ending in truncated spurs at the coast. It also had patches of green, which gave the impression of cultivated fields high up on the side of the mountain, with a few houses scattered about in the steep and wild terrain.
St Vincent was amongst the last Caribbean island to be settled by Europeans. At the time Columbus sailed through the islands, it was inhabited by the Kalinargo (Columbus called them Caribs), who had migrated from South America and called the island Hairoun (now the name of the locally brewed beer), which means 'home of the blessed.' They were a fierce tribe who had wrested the land from the Arawak people who preceded them. As the Europeans colonised the nearby islands, a slave ship was wrecked and the Kalinargo took them as their own on St Vincent. However, these slaves were fierce and warlike and proved to be a problem. To control this, the Kalinargo decided to kill all the young black male children. This led to a revolt among the slaves, who killed all the Kalinargo they could and took their women and ran off into the hills. They became known as the Black Caribs. Over the years they took control of much of St Vincent and put up intense resistance to European settlement. Finally, in the late 18th Century, the Black Caribs were defeated by a superior British force and shipped en masse to Honduras. St Vincent and the Grenadines gained independence from Great Britain in Oct 1979 and now has a democratically elected government and a Prime Minister.
We arrived in Chateaubelair, our chosen port as it had facilities for clearing in and is near the northern end of the island, mid afternoon. As we approached our anchoring spot we were greeted by Fiztmore Patterson, a local boat boy. It was interesting to note that the boat boys here use small wooden boats, boards or canoes and row everywhere with home made oars, rather than using the Pirongues and huge outboards favoured in St Lucia. As we anchored, Fitzmore gave use a master class running commentary on the correct technique for anchoring in sand off a beach, totally oblivious to the fact that we may have done it before! We were then joined by George. The two boat boys talked casually to us as we completed the post anchoring jobs on board. As Darrell paid the unofficial 10 EC fee to our helper, Stream was approached at speed by a rib containing two yachties, looking embarrassed, and a customs official. The customs official proceeded to shout at us for "interacting with the locals" before clearing in. She then gave us ten minutes to get ashore and clear customs. When Sarah pointed out that we needed to lower the dinghy and mount its engine, she restated the ten minutes in a manner that allowed no debate and implied further action may follow. Not the pleasant welcome we usually associate with Caribbean Islands. Our boat boys were also told off by the official in the local patois, but both were very affronted by her manner and that she may make the tourists leave! We quickly set about getting to customs before the ten minute deadline expired. As we did this we noticed the same feverish activity on several other yachts.
We dinghied across the bay to the beach in front of the customs house and were helped up the beach by two locals, to the refrains of "Catch a tourist, catch a tourist" from the fishermen, one of whom was filleting a large grouper with a two foot machete; the implement of choice for most activities here! Another 10 ECs changed hands and we joined the other bemused skippers queuing to clear customs. The custom official was now all smiley and making jokes as she went through the paperwork. It was the usual one page form with carbon paper to give the three copies. Every now and again the Customs Official would talk to her 'spotter', a young man with binoculars who reported all the activity in the bay and any arrivals of yachts. With all the forms completed, money paid and tourist guides given to us we were directed to go to Immigration by the Customs Official, who stated we would be guided by one of the men. At least this ensures that some tourist money gets into the local economy, well at least into the hands of her band of merry men!
Chateaubelair is like wandering through a spaghetti western with the odd red and white painted Merry Christmas sign or Santa on walls and post boxes. Men with machetes and dogs standing on every corner, as if in anticipation all watching the strangers walk through. All that was required was for Clint Eastwood to ride through on his horse.
The door to the large pale yellow concrete police station was open and we entered to find the young desk officer slumped behind the four foot high counter. In the back the rest of the station officers (still in their flak jackets) and possibly clients, were noisily playing cards. The interaction went roughly as follows:
Darrell: "Good Afternoon, I have come from Customs to clear immigration."
Police Officer: No verbal response, eye contact or movement for at least thirty seconds. Then a very loud snort, as her hand went out towards Darrell.
Darrell handed over the Customs documents, which she then processed after another loud snort and attempt to clear her nasal passageways. This was repeated a few times. Sarah at this point left the building before she vomited.
As she completed the forms she snorted, cleared her nasal passages again and wiped her nose on her sleeve. Her hand then went towards Darrell again.
Darrell interpreted this as a request for passports (or perhaps a handkerchief?) and placed them in her hand. She snorted and proceeded to stamp them before returning them to Darrell.
Darrell: "Is that everything?"
The police officer nodded before re-adopting her comatose position of earlier, having not uttered a single word in the ten minutes it took to complete the immigration formalities. Darrell left to find Sarah still trying hard not to vomit, next to the Police 4x4 vehicle, which had been kindly donated by the Chinese Republic of Taiwan. It may have been better if they had also donated some cash for some Dulux and paintbrushes to give the building a much needed facelift. Perhaps even a few extra dollars to provide "Interacting with the public" or "The Public face of the Police" training for the desk officers.
This was like being in an episode of a British comedy programme, a cross between 'Little Britain' and 'The League of Gentlemen', an extremely surreal and unsettling experience for us both and one that continued as we wandered back down to the beach to reclaim our dinghy from its minder. (More money exchanged hands!)
Back on Stream we had a much needed cup of tea, as we endured the visits of several boats boys offering us a variety of things. George returned with some bread and tomatoes for us from his mother (no we didn't need them, but it was only polite to give him 10EC) and a chat. He happily took possession of a bright pink hoodie, although his favourite colour is fluorescent pink he felt he could brighten up the old one we gave him. Finally, we were left alone and were able to address some of the various jobs we had on our 'to do' list.
Darrell began to tackle the problem of the generator. He checked the oil and then dived into the water to check the water inlet. He narrowed down the problem to the water filter. This meant a couple of happy hours spent squeezed into the confined spaces at the back of the boat with a mirror attached to a pole as he fiddled with the generator panels and parts. Water filter cleaned and scrubbed by Sarah, then replaced by Darrell still didn't resolve the issue, but it was clear by now that the water pump impeller needed replacing. As the sun had set this would have to wait until morning and anyway tea was ready! To the strains of more loud beach music we ate in the cockpit and then retired to bed, content that we had not been arrested for some Customs/Immigration transgression and that we only have one more country to clear into before our adventure ends.